tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81433728928840456942014-11-27T09:30:24.957-08:00SinOrdinary Joe. That's me. Except it's not, not really. The cries of those who have died echo constantly in my head. That's why I'm in the asylum - for the drugs, to help me forget, to help it stop.
It's a pity it doesn't work.
This blog is my diary, after a fashion. My own personal therapy. Views, 'insights' and stories about those I meet and my experiences in the asylum.
Enjoy...Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.comBlogger92125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-24013170764268452152014-11-27T09:30:00.002-08:002014-11-27T09:30:24.976-08:00Somewhere Over the Scatterbrain...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nq8ZKzjvMqE/VHdfWO9pX1I/AAAAAAAATbM/UvWjifRSaQo/s1600/Tin%2BMan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nq8ZKzjvMqE/VHdfWO9pX1I/AAAAAAAATbM/UvWjifRSaQo/s1600/Tin%2BMan.jpg" height="400" width="321" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Today is a fuzzy headed day.</div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal">I feel like the thoughts in my head are a whirlwind of black birds (not necessarily blackbirds or even crows) spinning in a giant vortex, lifting up high till an errant thought tips the precarious balance and they're dashed against the floor.&nbsp; They'd be so haphazardly scattered, they'd actually make a pattern.&nbsp; In the same way you look at clouds and see dragons, you'd look at the remnants of my mind's meanderings and see...</div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal">What would you see?</div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal">Smiley faces?&nbsp; Hell?&nbsp; Chocolate chip cookies?</div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal">Who knows.&nbsp; Not I, said the fly.</div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don't know what's got my head so muxed ip.&nbsp; Today is just another day.&nbsp; There's been no dramas and everyone has been fairly relaxed.&nbsp; Almost comatose in some cases.&nbsp; Edna Dullwitch (or 'De Witch' as she's obviously called) did try to steal Boris's (real name's Ben but he likes to put on a Russian accent - for 'intrigue') crusty roll at lunch, I suppose.&nbsp; That's something like a drama, but once he'd pulled a fistful of curly, frizzy hair from her head, she replaced the roll and scuttled off into the corner to whimper.&nbsp; Boris put the wrenched clump of fuzz up his sleeve for safe keeping.</div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don't particularly want to know why he'd keep it.&nbsp; Perhaps he's building a replica Edna in his room - or even rebuilding the existing one.&nbsp; Maybe he's claiming various body parts as time goes on.&nbsp; He'd start off small - the hair, a discarded fingernail and so on.&nbsp; Then he'd move on to bigger prizes.&nbsp; An arm.&nbsp; A leg.&nbsp; She wouldn't notice one or two limbs missing, would she?&nbsp; Nah.&nbsp; It'll be reet.</div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal">Apart from that, however, the hours have been as lazy as the patients.&nbsp; It was 8:00 am about fourteen days ago.</div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal">Perhaps that's why my thoughts are off kilter.&nbsp; Maybe they're wanting to have a wiz around to try and coax time into joining in.&nbsp; Or they're hoping to suck up the minutes and send them spinning into the future, dragging us along with it.</div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal">Or, even, what if my thoughts are Dorothy's tornado?&nbsp; What if they are building up to snatch houses, girls, dogs and fussy old women on bicycles and throw them into other lands where they save the day, save the munchkins and save a fortune in fuel costs (what with broomsticks and flying monkeys).</div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal">Or, they could simply be having a fuzzy headed day.&nbsp; They could simply be having a day where they need to whip themselves up like a dog having a mad five minutes, tail chasing and pigeon worrying.</div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal">Still, I think I'll have a look out of the window.</div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal">There might be a rainbow.</div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-25613038777888625482014-04-30T06:30:00.001-07:002014-04-30T12:12:40.572-07:00Somewhen Over the Rainbow...<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-OLQ3fGWokYA/U2D65K9Q3UI/AAAAAAAAMfw/4GDKmZCU7tY/s640/blogger-image--2071620986.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-OLQ3fGWokYA/U2D65K9Q3UI/AAAAAAAAMfw/4GDKmZCU7tY/s640/blogger-image--2071620986.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Everybody's gotta be somewhere.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br />That ‘somewhere’ could be over the rainbow, wearing ruby slippers and running from the Wicked Witch.&nbsp; It could be in a dark alley, running from an attacker, hoping the shadows will hide you, protect you, wrap you in their cloak of warm night.&nbsp; Somewhere could be sprawled on a sofa watching Coronation Street, with a box of Maltesers and a cup of tea to keep you company, running from the stresses of the day.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But you’ve just got to be&nbsp;<i>somewhere</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br />Whatever the tensions or reliefs your life may pounce upon to leave at your feet like the half eaten remnants of cat for its beloved owner, you will always find yourself&nbsp;<i>there</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But, what if you didn’t?&nbsp; What if Somewhere was just the same as, well,&nbsp;<i>somewhere</i>?&nbsp; That makes perfect sense in my head.&nbsp; It doesn’t make so much sense written down.&nbsp; It’s as if the words looked at each other, went ‘Huh?’ and fell about laughing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I mean,&nbsp;<i>somewhere</i>&nbsp;could be Oz, an alley or on your sofa.&nbsp; But what if actually being in a place at all was something you could choose?&nbsp; What if you could take yourself out of PLACE completely?&nbsp; WHERE was a pin on a map and all you needed to do was step off the map into&nbsp;<i>nowhere</i>?&nbsp; The Wicked Witch and the potential attacker would never find you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Granted you’d also not be able to buy Maltesers or tea bags.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But, what if?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Would you float in darkness?&nbsp; Would there be a sort of murky light, hinting at the periphery of your vision so you weren’t sure if it existed at all or if your mind was simply filling in gaps it thought your brain had suddenly realised had appeared?&nbsp; Would you feel substance?&nbsp; Would you&nbsp;<i>feel</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I suppose you wouldn’t.&nbsp; I suppose your senses wouldn’t be able to take that step with you and would have to mill around on the precipice, passing the time by playing leap frog with each other and games of I Spy.&nbsp; Not that you would know what Time was, of course.&nbsp; Not that Time would know what Time was, either.&nbsp; Nowhere would have to be no<i>when</i>, too.&nbsp; Time would have nothing to hold on to.&nbsp; Nothing to stroke with its decaying touch.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Would you find yourself standing in a crowded room, surrounded by the spirits of those who had lived and passed, each waiting for something that couldn’t happen because waiting was wasted when there was no Time to count the passing seconds.&nbsp; Or seconds to count.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Fears and foes would be unable to reach you there.&nbsp; So would wit, wishes and wonder.&nbsp; Good and bad, opposite sides of a tossed coin curling in the air, could only watch as you spun endlessly in a field of emptiness.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Everybody’s gotta be somewhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But what if...?&nbsp; Nah.&nbsp; There’d be nowhere to plug in your kettle.</span></div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-60314874016944602082014-04-17T06:47:00.001-07:002014-04-17T06:47:58.008-07:00Here Comes the Easter Bunny...<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-EUYujGUDeB0/U0_bipKuC7I/AAAAAAAAMOY/ZKfaehcb5Nw/s640/blogger-image-1533245885.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-EUYujGUDeB0/U0_bipKuC7I/AAAAAAAAMOY/ZKfaehcb5Nw/s640/blogger-image-1533245885.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It's Easter soon.&nbsp; With it comes Easter bunnies, chicks and chocolate.&nbsp; I am, actually, looking forward to it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Often, in here, a smidgeon of effort is thrown at holidays and the like.&nbsp; If that smidgeon sticks, bonus.&nbsp; If not, as is usually the case, it misses, leaving only a trace of said effort.&nbsp; The trace generally tends to be a bit too gloopy and so slides off leaving a pool of wishful thinking on the floor at our feet.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This Easter, however, Jeremy is involved.&nbsp; Much, I'm sure, to the irritation of Connors, Jezzer wants to put a smile on our faces.&nbsp; The weather outside has been as dismal as the food inside - grey and bland and uninspiring - and this has affected our moods.&nbsp; Now, you may think we're all happy and smiling and a-dancing all the day.&nbsp; We're not.&nbsp; Sorry to disappoint.&nbsp; Likewise, we're not entirely miserable, staring into space (or corners), staring at each other, not staring at anything because our eyes were closed and we were shambling about the Recreation Room bumping into thing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">That last one was Penny Pocket, the riotous rocket.&nbsp; She thought it would be funny to close her eyes and pretend she was blind.&nbsp; She shuffled around, not looking or caring where she was going.&nbsp; This was fine and even humorous until she happened to stand on Jersey's toes.&nbsp; Jersey, a dirty oil rag of a man and one of the more unpleasant orderlies, pushed her back with an angry shout and an angrier look.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Penny fell back, eyes still closed, laughing.&nbsp; Then she stumbled against one of the chairs.&nbsp; As they're bolted to the floor, the chair didn't move, so Penny fell sideways, her body twisting.&nbsp; She hit her head as the rest of her hit the floor.&nbsp; Penny Rocket was no longer as riotous as she had been.&nbsp; She also didn't need to pretend to be blind.&nbsp; The blow to her head had sorted that one for her.&nbsp; How generous.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Jersey thought it served her right.&nbsp; We all thought Jersey should be served.&nbsp; To a lion.&nbsp; Or cannibal.&nbsp; Or a rumbling volcano.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But good ol' Jeremy has come to our rescue this Easter.&nbsp; He, personally, bought everyone an Easter egg.&nbsp; Even when chocolate eggs can be had three for a fiver nowadays, it would still have been a substantial purchase.&nbsp; He's even gone so far as to remember Chloe is dairy intolerant so has to have a dairy free one and Boris Phenaligan, ex-pentathlete and substance abuser, only likes dark chocolate.&nbsp; Jeremy is like that.&nbsp; He knows you.&nbsp; He wants to know you.&nbsp; He wants to make your stay comfortable and as happy as it can be under the circumstances (you're in an asylum, fed slop and 'care' is something you'll have to look up in the dictionary)..<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Jeremy knows I liked Minstrels.&nbsp; He's bought me an egg which comes with two bags of the sweets.&nbsp; Easter Sunday, when he'll give us our eggs, seems forever away.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Not only that, but he has organised an Easter hunt.&nbsp; I have no idea how he's managed to garner permission for such a thing, but little fluffy chicks and rabbits - not real ones, of course, are going to be hidden around the asylum.&nbsp; The Recreation Room, canteen, even the toilets will host tiny balls of fluffy fun.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Of course, this could backfire.&nbsp; I don't want to be pessimistic, simply realistic.&nbsp; We're dealing with people who, in many cases, are a little unhinged.&nbsp; The doorways to their psychoses are hanging wide open and anything could trigger those doors to slam shut unexpectedly.&nbsp; One person finds a chick and another wants it.&nbsp; One finds a bunny and another thinks the bunny is whispering to them.&nbsp; As Jeremy has announced a competition where the one who finds the most wins a prize (another egg), fisticuffs could break out among even the most placid of patients.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">On the other hand, it may well be a roaring success.&nbsp; The competition could be viewed as everyone is a winner purely because we're able to do this in the first time.&nbsp; The eggs might be consumed without incident - no stealing, dropping, hoarding or coveting.&nbsp; It potentially could put a smile on our faces which will remain for quite some time, before Jersey, Connors or one of the others decides to do a little metaphorical dusting and wipes it off.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Who knows?&nbsp; Ask me another.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Either way, I like Minstrels.&nbsp; I'm happy.&nbsp; I hope you enjoy yours too.</span></p></div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-89974366884973725802014-02-24T08:47:00.001-08:002014-02-24T08:47:33.666-08:00On Being Unwritten...<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-vuXuX0Opl1k/Uwt3frRUU3I/AAAAAAAALOw/3RE4bEIG-9M/s640/blogger-image-222188924.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-vuXuX0Opl1k/Uwt3frRUU3I/AAAAAAAALOw/3RE4bEIG-9M/s640/blogger-image-222188924.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Do you ever wake up disorientated?&nbsp; Wondering where you are?&nbsp; Who you are?&nbsp; Even, why you are?&nbsp; Do you wake up and something just doesn't feel right, as if someone rewrote your life and forgot to tell you to turn the page?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I had that feeling this morning.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I dreamt I was a fictional character, plucked from the odd ramblings of some strange man's musings.&nbsp; I dreamt I wasn't real and I only existed because he had breathed life into me through the tapping of the keys on his computer.&nbsp; They were the defibrillator jolting me from nothing into being.&nbsp; They were the bolt of lightning in the crazed laboratory of an aberrant mind.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I mean, he's have to be aberrant, wouldn't he?&nbsp; Whoever thought me up?&nbsp; I'm a lunatic, or so I tell people.&nbsp; I'm responsible for deaths.&nbsp; I'm responsible for so much despair.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Who'd want to create a character like that?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But, that was my dream.&nbsp; I wasn't real.&nbsp; I was made up.&nbsp; I was words on a page.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Have you ever felt like that?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It's a weird feeling, and it's echoed through me as the day has passed.&nbsp; Every so often, I'll look at my friends, Bender, Mucous and the others, and wonder if they're the same.&nbsp; I wonder if they ever feel like this or if they are like this.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Could I reach out from this imaginary world and rewrite myself?&nbsp; Could I backspace through all that I've done and erase it?&nbsp; I could bring back Joy.&nbsp; I could bring back everyone.&nbsp; I'd edit my life to make it less painful.&nbsp; More ordinary.&nbsp; More mundane.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">That'd be fine. &nbsp;I don't want or need to be special.&nbsp; I've had enough of special.&nbsp; I want to wake in the morning and go to work.&nbsp; I want to walk my dog and kiss my wife and play with my children.&nbsp; I want to live on a river where swans float and geese occasionally get awkward and wander on to the road, just because they're feeling a little daredevil that day.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I don't want to feel the pain.&nbsp; i don't want to hear the screams.&nbsp; I don't want to cause the deaths.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But, it's not like that, is it.&nbsp; It never is.&nbsp; I suppose I wish to be fictional, because then, though it all seems so real, it wouldn't be.&nbsp; Then, whatever I think has happened, it hasn't.&nbsp; None of it has.&nbsp; If I was a made up character in the mind of a writer, that'd be fine, because, perhaps, he might take pity.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Not on me, I don't deserve anyone's pity.&nbsp; No.&nbsp; Maybe he'd pity those that have died.&nbsp; Maybe he'd feel sorry for those I've killed.&nbsp; Saying that, if I've killed them, so has he.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Maybe I'll wake up in the shower and it will all have been a dream, thanks to him taking a cue from an 80s soap.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Still.&nbsp; I feel... less substantial.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Hey, if you're out there, at least get rid of my grey, won't you?</span></p></div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-21977016686322314882013-12-30T02:48:00.001-08:002013-12-30T02:48:45.045-08:00Cannonballs Ahoy...!<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-fDY_62x0DGc/UsFPin-8CgI/AAAAAAAAKGk/tr6B7d4MYIU/s640/blogger-image-1609880042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-fDY_62x0DGc/UsFPin-8CgI/AAAAAAAAKGk/tr6B7d4MYIU/s640/blogger-image-1609880042.jpg"></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"A cannonball," she said.&nbsp; "It could come crashing in through that window and we could all escape.&nbsp; All except Jack Sparrow, of course.&nbsp; He's got to wait for his ship."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Who would fire the cannon?" I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It was an interesting method of escape and one I'd actually not thought of myself.&nbsp; Cannonballs were difficult to get your hands on in an asylum and I didn't think the Black Pearl would chance by, there being a distinct lack of ocean and all.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Well, maybe Captain Jack wouldn't have to wait for his ship at all!&nbsp; It might be out there waiting.&nbsp; It might fire the cannonball for him to escape and we could get out too!"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I didn't want to mention my previously mentioned lack of ocean.&nbsp; It often didn't pay to put to many obstacles in the way of her thoughts.&nbsp; She'd freewheel through fantasies and ideas like a gymnastic jester, all tumbling arms and careening legs.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I also didn't want to mention the lack of Captain Jack Sparrow and his mighty ship.&nbsp; Surely they'd be cruising the Caribbean awaiting the release of the next sequel's sequel's sequel.&nbsp; If she thought the good Cap'ain was here then I wasn't going to say anything to the contrary.&nbsp; I'd leave that to Contrary Maurice (invariably called Mary purely for the flow), who'd swear white was black and night was day even at noon in the middle of a snowstorm in December.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Besides, Alexandra, who didn't really mind being called Alex but pretended she hated it (she'd always tip me a wink when she was raging at the latest victim to fall foul of accidentally abbreviating her name), came up with some mightily inventive escape plans and, one day, one of them might actually work.&nbsp; It seemed she was the Recreation Room's sole escape committee.&nbsp; She was Steve McQueen, Donald Pleasance and that guy from Sapphire and Steel all rolled into one, and I bet she knew how to ride a motorbike too.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Alex (forgive me), of the deep red hair and deeper eyes, and of the laugh that was wicked, dirty and sly in equal measure, was my light on the darkest day.&nbsp; When the screams were close to deafening me and the shadows were threatening to suffocate me, Alex was there to scatter my darkness's minions like leaves on the wind.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I questioned her residency of the asylum.&nbsp; She didn't strike me as insane or a danger to anyone.&nbsp; She was, simply, imaginative.&nbsp; Perhaps she did live in a world a whisper away from this one, populated by imaginary ship's captains and cannonballs that came out of nowhere, but that didn't mean she was diddly-dolally.&nbsp; It only meant she was eccentric.&nbsp; Plenty of people were a little left of centre and some ran the country!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I asked her, once, in an attempt to ignore the curves that were difficult to ignore (even in the pseudo-scrubs we were forced to wear), what she would do if she was in charge of the country.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Nothing," she answered.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Nothing?"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"We're in a mess anyway," she said, smiling her smile.&nbsp; "Each party inherits the mistakes of the one before.&nbsp; How can you do anything with a pile of doggy-do-do that's been dumped by a hound the size of a country?"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I frowned, unable to answer.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"I'd let the people decide.&nbsp; Pumps or heels."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Pumps or heels?"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Yes, I'd let the people decide which was best when the Enterprise came down to beam us out!"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">She said this in a tone that implied the word 'Silly' was silently added to the end.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Alex for PM, I say.&nbsp; Let her sail around the coast in the Black Pearl firing cannonballs at anyone who wasn't carrying a pooper-scooper.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Works for me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-64263731308590186682013-12-16T07:53:00.001-08:002013-12-16T07:53:17.755-08:00Ghost of Christmas Past...<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-f_THBMao090/Uq8h6pKKLgI/AAAAAAAAJ9E/mvL1r8W5P1s/s640/blogger-image-1975131809.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-f_THBMao090/Uq8h6pKKLgI/AAAAAAAAJ9E/mvL1r8W5P1s/s640/blogger-image-1975131809.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“I am the ghost of Christmas past,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Her head was on my shoulder at the time.&nbsp; She was resting it there after telling me, if she didn’t, it would fall off.&nbsp; Who was I to argue?&nbsp; Who was I to risk the potential decapitation of someone such as she?&nbsp; Besides, there are plenty here who seem to run around as if headless...<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I asked her what she meant, and she didn’t answer for a long moment.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I could smell her hair.&nbsp; The scent of coconut drifted up to make me think of chocolate and paradise islands.&nbsp; I could imagine her laying there on the sand, counting the grains that ran through her fingers.&nbsp; She be gazing at the sky, waiting for the stars to come out when the sun was setting.&nbsp; She’d imagine seeing the birth of each one, rather than them being burning balls of fire, millions of light years away.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">She was like that.&nbsp; Whimsical.&nbsp; A wisp of a woman.&nbsp; Slight and slender.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Gabrielle.&nbsp; She believed herself to be ‘not from around here’.&nbsp; By that, she didn’t mean she’d arrived on the train from Kings Cross or flown in on the early plane from Schipol Airport.&nbsp; She meant she was not... of this plane.&nbsp; This existence.&nbsp; This reality.&nbsp; No one called her Gabby or Gabs or any other too informal abbreviation.&nbsp; She seemed to deserve her full name.&nbsp; Gabrielle.&nbsp; It suited her.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“I mean, I’m the ghost of Christmas past,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Of course she did.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“OK,” I said.&nbsp; I left it at that.&nbsp; What could I say?&nbsp; How’s Scrooge doing?&nbsp; What the Dickens do you mean?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Besides, when she rested her head on me like that, something which happened at least a couple of times a week (she seemed to have a wobbly head), it was somehow comforting.&nbsp; Perhaps it was the simple closeness of another person – a woman, indeed.&nbsp; Perhaps I craved contact with someone who wasn’t on the verge of having a schizophrenic episode or who might take the opportunity to urinate on my feet.&nbsp; Perhaps I just wanted to sit and not even talk.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“Christmas is coming, isn’t it,” she said.&nbsp; It was a statement rather than a question.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“It is,” I answered.&nbsp; I used to love Christmas.&nbsp; I watched Christmas films, enjoyed giving (and receiving) presents, stuffed myself silly with the meal.&nbsp; That was a long time ago.&nbsp; I didn’t really enjoy anything anymore.&nbsp; Well, apart from a head on my shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Don’t get me wrong, there was nothing untoward in my enjoyment of her proximity.&nbsp; No mischievous thoughts (or anything else) were aroused.&nbsp; It was purely platonic.&nbsp; It felt nice to be just there.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“They’ll haunt you, you know.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My breath stopped as it entered my mouth, deciding whether it wanted to hear what else she had to say before it chose to exit the way it had come or to continue down to my lungs.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“Who will?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“Those who have died.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I made a great effort to ensure no one knew of my particular problem.&nbsp; I was a sufferer of extreme paranoia.&nbsp; The asylum was the best place to be because those who were out to get me couldn’t in here.&nbsp; Deaths?&nbsp; I knew nothing of such things.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“I don’t...”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“You do,” she said quietly, interrupting me.&nbsp; I did.&nbsp; “And I know they haunt you.&nbsp; I am the ghost...”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“Of Christmas past,” I interrupted in turn.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“Yes,” she said.&nbsp; Her voice was little more than a whisper - a murmur carried to my ears more by vibration than by sound.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“They already do,” I told her.&nbsp; I heard their screams every night and could feel their anger and despair every day.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“I know,” she said, briefly touching my leg.&nbsp; “But you won’t stop it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I didn’t expect to.&nbsp; I put myself in here to try and prevent any more deaths, but I figured I’d be forever haunted by the ghosts of those that have already died.&nbsp; It was only right.&nbsp; I’d snatched them from their lives.&nbsp; I’d ripped their souls out and cast them aside like flotsam on the shore.&nbsp; I was their Reaper.&nbsp; I should be permanently reminded of that.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br>Still, to be told that.&nbsp; To be slapped in the face with the fact.&nbsp; Whatever I did wouldn’t be enough.&nbsp; No amount of self-deprecation would suffice.&nbsp; Leaving myself to the whims of Connors and his staff would, in no way, make up for what I’d done.&nbsp; And, fair enough.&nbsp; My torment was also my friend.&nbsp; I gained solace in the knowledge I’d always be surrounded by the shades of my crimes.&nbsp; That may not have been right – why should I benefit from such things?&nbsp; But no.&nbsp; There was no benefit, not really.&nbsp; It was simply that I deserved my fate.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“You don’t,” Gabrielle whispered.&nbsp; I hadn’t realised I’d spoken aloud.&nbsp; “But they have nothing else to do except haunt the one who stole their lives.&nbsp; Whether you were at fault or not, you were the flame that started the fire and they are like spectral moths, with their screams the beat of their wings.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Erm...&nbsp; Right...<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">She lifted her head and looked at me.&nbsp; I found myself unable to look away from her pale grey eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“They will haunt you, always.&nbsp; Don’t haunt yourself.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Don’t...?&nbsp; At first I didn’t understand.&nbsp; Haunt myself?&nbsp; I wasn’t dead.&nbsp; Maybe dead inside, but...&nbsp; Unless that’s what she meant?&nbsp; Don’t haunt myself.&nbsp; Be alive?&nbsp; Don’t dwell on the past but look to the future?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I asked her.&nbsp; She nodded.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br>“What future?” I asked.&nbsp; “I don’t have one, not anymore.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“We all have a future,” she assured me.&nbsp; “Even thirty seconds from now is the future.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Somehow this wasn’t comforting.&nbsp; It didn’t exactly imply longevity.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">A thought occurred to me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">“What does this have to do with Christmas past?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Gabrielle didn’t answer.&nbsp; Her head was back on my shoulder and her eyes were closed.<br><br>She didn’t open them again for a long time.</span></p></div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-7052680521702407282013-08-20T06:08:00.001-07:002013-08-20T06:08:25.010-07:00Talking Tango...<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-PAtpGdpkutI/UhNqRezznFI/AAAAAAAAJeI/5BcMKNgjlxo/s640/blogger-image-443312076.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-PAtpGdpkutI/UhNqRezznFI/AAAAAAAAJeI/5BcMKNgjlxo/s640/blogger-image-443312076.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">You know, so we're told, when you've been Tangoed!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">To my knowledge, I haven't - as yet.&nbsp;&nbsp;Not the dance, all passion and power, but the drink, fizz, fun and flatulance.&nbsp;&nbsp;No wobbly-bellied man, painted orange, has run up to me in the street - or the asylum - and slapped my cheek.&nbsp; Neither have I ever gone a little too far with the fake tan, making me look as if I've been living on a diet of Satsumas for the past ten years or so.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Of course, with the slop we're served in here, it may well be Satsumas.&nbsp; It's hard to say.&nbsp; It could well be chicken or caviar.&nbsp; Hey, it could actually just be tinned Slop!&nbsp; Do Tesco sell that?&nbsp; Is it next to the baked beans and spaghetti hoops?&nbsp; Do Heinz do four packs of Slop, with a new, improved recipe?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">No.&nbsp; I don't believe they do.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Anywho.&nbsp; I haven't, to be honest, any idea why I started waffling on about being Tangoed.&nbsp; For an advert that hasn't been seen on television, probably, this century, it's still a well-known catchphrase.&nbsp; A bit like "Do or die, spit in your eye" may well never be.&nbsp; It's just, sometimes...<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Do you ever feel as if you just need to talk?&nbsp; Not about anything in particular, just to express words like a new mother expresses milk, the resultant flow easing pressure whilst providing sustenance?&nbsp; Granted, I'm not a three month old baby, but sometimes simply chatting can be nourishing.&nbsp; It can challenge the mind and entertain the senses.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">In here, with a population largely consisting of misguided individuals (I hesitate to use the term 'delusional'), conversation can be somewhat lacking.&nbsp; Four walls and a stream of MTV can only hold one's attention for a limited amount of time.&nbsp; Well, in my case at least.&nbsp; Many of my inmate friends are consistently captivated by the enclosed space and repetitive thumping base from the box on the wall.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">A box within a box.&nbsp; Like our mind within our body, except our minds are Tardises within the confines of our skin and bone, able to go anywhere and anywhen with seemingly infinite capacity.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">So.&nbsp; Conversation.&nbsp; Occasionally, when Mickey is all Mucousy and Benny is Bending, I just need to talk.&nbsp; Talk about normal.&nbsp; Talk about mundane.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">If I didn't, I think I'd go insane.&nbsp; You'd assume I'd be in the right place for that.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Have you met Dr. Connors?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p></div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-56993978943767877912013-07-04T08:17:00.001-07:002013-07-04T08:17:07.448-07:00I had a dream...<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I had a dream last night, and you were there.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And you.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And you.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But, not you.&nbsp; Unless you were the night.&nbsp; Unless you were the darkness that crept around me like a skulking fox, waiting for the moment to leap and catch its prey.&nbsp; Killing not just for sustenance, but for the taste of blood.&nbsp; For the crunch of bone.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">For the pleasure.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I had a dream last night, and you were there.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I felt your pain.&nbsp; Felt the impact of the bullet and the slicing, burning flesh.&nbsp; Saw the look of fear on your face.&nbsp; Saw the blame.&nbsp; Felt the guilt.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Not your guilt.&nbsp; Mine.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And in my dream, I saw myself.&nbsp; I stood.&nbsp; Watched.&nbsp; My face bore no sign of pleasure.&nbsp; There was no indication, either, of horror or sorrow.&nbsp; Merely acceptance.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But I am sorry.&nbsp; I awoke to find my pillow wet from tears.&nbsp; I still hear your scream and I can still feel the fading warmth of your hand in mine.&nbsp; I held it as you went.&nbsp; Tightly.&nbsp; Hoping the pressure would keep some part of you alive, trapped.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It didn't.&nbsp; You were fast cold.&nbsp; The chill is in my own hand - it lingers to remind me of what I did.&nbsp; What I do.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Often, when a dream that is a nightmare stays with you once you wake, the brightness of the morning washes the dark stain clean.&nbsp; The sun uses its rays as a spear to impale the tainted heart of your mind's subconscious horrors.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Not this morning.&nbsp; Not this day.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Not ever, really.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I feel the cold hands and hear the cries.&nbsp; Yours and my own.&nbsp; Except, yours are, most likely, my own anyway.&nbsp; And vice versa.&nbsp; Crying out together, in sweet, sadistic harmony.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">You weren't the fox.&nbsp; You weren't the night.&nbsp; That was me.&nbsp; As much as I watched, I also participated.&nbsp; I can pray forgiveness and beseech that it wasn't my intention or fault.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It doesn't matter.&nbsp; It was still me, the blame wrapping itself about me so I am unable to shrug it off.&nbsp; I put myself in here, in this asylum, so I may prevent, or at least avoid, such things.&nbsp; So that darkest part of me can remain caged.&nbsp; So that, when I dream of you - whichever 'you' you may be - you do not die.&nbsp; You smile.&nbsp; Breathe.&nbsp; Dance, perhaps.&nbsp; Be alive.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But, I am the night, in my dreams.&nbsp; I am Sin when awake.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Forgive me, for I am Death.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</span></p>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-71627722749293254792013-05-13T07:40:00.001-07:002013-05-13T09:32:06.893-07:00Under the Spotlight...<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-DXrwIZvDV1g/UZD7URsHuPI/AAAAAAAAI7U/AXFtxqoPNd0/s640/blogger-image-1644247818.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-DXrwIZvDV1g/UZD7URsHuPI/AAAAAAAAI7U/AXFtxqoPNd0/s640/blogger-image-1644247818.jpg" /></a><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I hate interviews.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Well, I dislike them, at least.&nbsp; I always feel as if I'm under the spotlight and picture myself restrained, with someone pulling a cover off a row of gleaming torture instruments.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Why are torture instruments - scalpels and clamps and the like - always so clean in films?&nbsp; Are they not wanting you to get a nasty infection whilst pulling your fingernails off or removing your thumb from the knuckle down?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Ain't that sweet of them?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Bless.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Anywho-be-do.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Interviews.&nbsp; I don't like them.&nbsp; I remember one I had.&nbsp; I forget what the job was actually for, but there were three people facing me.&nbsp; It was early days in my jobbing career.&nbsp; Probably only my second or third interview.&nbsp; There was a window behind them, with horizontal blinds left open.&nbsp; The sun was shining in the window and the blinds, as I moved my head, kept causing me to be temporarily blinded and left in darkness as my eyes struggled to keep up with the sun dipping in and out.&nbsp; I could have kept my head perfectly still, but didn't want to appear stiff and uncomfortable.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Instead I appeared, probably, as if I wasn't in control of my eyes or I had a weird nervous tic.&nbsp; Needless to say I didn't get the job.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">When Connors interviewed me prior to entry into the asylum, it was more informal.&nbsp; He acted as a friend.&nbsp; He smiled and offered me tea and biscuits.&nbsp; His voice was soothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">So, rather than an out and out predator, lunching on my discomfort, Connors was prowling.&nbsp; Circling.&nbsp; Choosing the best time to pounce.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Letting me walk into his trap.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Only right, therefore, that I choose to give others some of this medicine.&nbsp; OK, so it's not Risperdal or even Paracetomol, and it may well not (read 'won't') make you feel better, but hey, I'll enjoy it, and that's what matters.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Of course, here in the asylum, it's difficult to interview anyone other than the other residents.&nbsp; Granted, in a good few cases, that'd be quite fun, and I may well do that, methinks, but how about others?&nbsp; How about you?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Well.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I can't do that in here.&nbsp; I can't even do that on this blog.&nbsp; As much as I feel I'm sneaking about writing this diary, I wouldn't be surprised if they (or '<b>THEY</b>') knew about it - although talking about it now sort of negates any secrecy, doesn't it?&nbsp; Hey, I'm in an asylum.&nbsp; I'm meant to be crazy, though we - you and I - know the truth about that, don't we?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Anywho.&nbsp; I've managed to do one.&nbsp; An interview.&nbsp; Shhh, don't tell anyone, OK?&nbsp; I managed to ask the lovely Jan Ruth a few questions, just off the top of my head.&nbsp; Of course, as I'm unable to put anything like that on here for fear of reprisal or victimisation (not just of me), I had to find somewhere else.&nbsp; It was easier than I thought.&nbsp; I simply hijacked another blog.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Yup.&nbsp; A man's gotta do and all that.&nbsp; The owner of the blog, some guy called Shaun Allan, hasn't seemed to have noticed, so, if you want to check it out before he&nbsp;<em>does</em> notice and takes it down, drop by <a href="http://flipandcatch.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/jan-ruth-flew-over-cuckoos-nest.html" x-apple-data-detectors-result="0" x-apple-data-detectors-type="link" x-apple-data-detectors="true">http://flipandcatch.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/jan-ruth-flew-over-cuckoos-nest.html</a>&nbsp;and take a peek.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">If you fancy a few words with a (supposed!) lunatic yourself, chuck me an email at&nbsp;<a href="mailto:sin@shaunallan.co.uk" x-apple-data-detectors-result="1" x-apple-data-detectors-type="link" x-apple-data-detectors="true">sin@shaunallan.co.uk</a>&nbsp;and I'll try and let you sneak in too.&nbsp; Don't blame me if, once you're in here, you can't get out, however.&nbsp; Them's the risks.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It feels a bit dangerous, you know.&nbsp; I can feel the adrenaline prickling through my veins.&nbsp; I'm being naughty!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><o:p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">&nbsp;</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Cool!</span></div><br />Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-10600824109358993332013-04-08T05:17:00.001-07:002013-04-08T05:17:38.424-07:00The Not-So-Grand National...The Grand National.<br /> <br />It's a race. Not just any race - a horse race. Not just any horse race - one of the biggest. Not just any biggest horse race - the sort that gets ordinary people, who never walk into a bookies at any other time of the year and never switch the television or radio on to listen to the commentary of any other sporting event, to place a bet.<br /> <br />Now mental patients, asylum residents or (as certain orderlies call us) 'The Animals', are not normal. Ignoring my own... I suppose... PARAnormality, my friends are a little different. They see the world through a stained-glass window, one which casts assorted shades upon the world within and without. In more than one case, that window is shattered, or at least cracked, and the view is warped - a distortion of reality dragging the mind on a rollercoaster of reason with psychosis are its sick bag.<br /> <br />The orderlies thought they would give us a little fun and excitement. Nice of them, no?<br /> <br />No.<br /> <br />They ran a sweepstake. Let everyone take part. A fiver of their allowance to pick a horse. Sat everyone down. Changed the TV over from MTV to Channel 4.<br /> <br />And they're off.<br /> <br />Of course, the orderlies had their fun. They prompted and cajoled. Pushed and conspired. They weren't idiots. Well, that’s debatable, but they're not naive. They knew.<br /> <br />At first, there was silence. A hush that is almost never heard - though hushes are generally not heard anyway - in the Recreation Room. All eyes were on the screen. A hands were clasped together, either in anticipation or prayer. All eyes were wide.<br /> <br />Rainbow Hunter. That was the first horse out. Brian, one of the Cornercopias. It was his horse. His five pounds. His chance to run free.<br /> <br />He cried. The tears were silent at first. They raced down his cheeks as the equine combatants raced around their track. Then the sobs took over and his body shook.<br /> <br />The orderlies laughed. Their first victory.<br /> <br />And so it went.<br /> <br />As horse after horse dropped out, resident after resident had their own drop-outs. Whether it be with fists of fury, as Brendan Blessed, who believed himself to be an angel and who had an almost permanent broken leg due to thinking the imaginary wings on his back gave him the gift of flight discovered when James 'Don't Call Me Jim' Carton's horse was pulled out by the rider. James, never Jim or your face would take, sometimes, weeks to recover, lashed out at the closest thing to him.<br /> <br />Brendan's head.<br /> <br />Or whether it be in manic misery, the way both Edna and her sister in everything but reality, Mabel, dealt with their steed's failure to complete the course. They're cries drowned out the commentary and the shouts from the other patients yelling for them to be quiet. They huddled on the floor in each other's arms, shaking, their tears becoming a flood that made Brian's seem a meagre tributary to their Nile.<br /> <br />Seventeen horses finished.<br /> <br />Half of those were chosen by my compatriots, the winning three included.<br /> <br />Mine came third. Bender Benny's was second. Luscious Lucy's mount stormed in at first.<br /> <br />Not one of us ended up collecting our winnings, not least because, when Auroras Encore proved odds in such a race were the stuff of dreams (meaningless and with as much substance as air), individual losses and successes merged into a collective furore that swept the room like a tsunami.<br /> <br />Four hours later, order was restored, thanks to the kindness of Jeremy, the dominance of Dr. Connors and a unhealthy dose of whichever drug was your respective version of finger-licking-chicken. The orderlies had smiles on their faces for hours after that. They'd had their fun. They'd split the proceeds. They'd massaged the maelstrom that a room full of patients can become.<br /> <br />I wonder what the collective term for a group of lunatics might be. I'd wager on 'A Stampede'.<br /> <br />The Grand National.<br /> <br />A race. Not just any race, but one which can take your reason, plonk it on the back of a horse and hurl it around the asylum.<br /> <br />A race, in here, with no winners.<br /> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-5jcfN7YFVn4/UWK1X20EZOI/AAAAAAAAIjk/0lODQdYXs9I/s640/blogger-image-105444337.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-5jcfN7YFVn4/UWK1X20EZOI/AAAAAAAAIjk/0lODQdYXs9I/s640/blogger-image-105444337.jpg" /></a></div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-67441286864990126102013-03-15T03:52:00.001-07:002013-03-15T03:52:33.179-07:00Butty Day...Steak and chips. I'd love steak and chips.<br /> <br />I like steak medium to well done. Can't have blood coming out of it. I'd feel like a vampire or cannibal. And proper chips. Not the frozen or oven ones that taste like soggy cardboard. No, proper, sliced from the spud, fried CHIPS.<br /> <br />Of course, if you're on a certain side of the Atlantic, that's crisps you're thinking of. Or thick fries. What do you call them? The weightier siblings or the French Fry? I remember, when I was younger and just being introduced to the fast food fury, that I thought it was kinda cool and sorta sad that our nation's favourite food was being called something else.<br /> <br />Hey! It's American! Fries! How cool!<br /> <br />Or...<br /> <br />Hey! It's American! No way can they change the name!<br /> <br />So I'd alternate by wanting to call them all fries, even when it came with batter coated haddock, to refusing to refer to them as anything other than CHIPS!<br /> <br />But, I'm from Grimsby. The home of fish'n'chips. It verged on heresy to a child who'd been weaned on deep fried everything.<br /> <br />Anywho-be-do. Steak and chips. Or bacon. A well done bacon and egg butty. Bread bun, sliced open, a better-bit-o'-butter, and some bacon and a fried egg.<br /> <br />Hmmm.....<br /> <br />Where I used to work, with a certain furnace I'm planning on becoming very intimate with, Friday was Butty Day. As it was situated in an industrial area, there was a mobile kitchen that would deliver for free if your order came to more than £10. As such, with various requests for my own delight or sausage and mushroom and more, they'd drop them off at the entry turnstile at 10am. Washed down with a nice cuppa, it was the perfect way to welcome in the weekend.<br /> <br />I miss that. They wouldn't, methinks, fancy delivering to an asylum. All those crazy people. Then there's the actual residents. If it had occurred to the orderlies, however, and if a similar franchise operated nearby, they'd take great pleasure in hungrily devouring such delicacies right in our faces. Taunting with moans and yums and dribbling chins.<br /> <br />I don't think I'll mention it.<br /> <br />Saying that, my stomach is threatening to tell them itself. It's started to grumble and groan. Like a distant thunder, its rumbling could well create a storm if anyone tried to force the reason for my stomach's verbosity.<br /> <br />I'll have to think of something else. Football. Like 'proper' chips, I mean 'proper' football. The sort played with, no less, the foot. Soccer, if you must. Again, like fish'n'chips, it was invented by this fair country of mine.<br /> <br />Thing is, we're pretty good at fish'n'chips.<br /> <br />At least we got one thing right...<br /> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-wz7tET3ohrk/UUL9bjjRXyI/AAAAAAAAIBw/pKbz0lTQbe4/s640/blogger-image-713314411.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-wz7tET3ohrk/UUL9bjjRXyI/AAAAAAAAIBw/pKbz0lTQbe4/s640/blogger-image-713314411.jpg" /></a></div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-8940157933962489122013-03-01T06:26:00.003-08:002013-03-01T06:26:59.623-08:00What's Two Days Between Friends...?Two days isn't a lot, is it? A flash in the pan of life, even for us mortals who exist for fairly short periods, two days isn't much. It's loose change in the pocket of a lifetime.<br /> <br />So how come February seems to be such a short month? How come, while only 48 hours exist between it and the likes of April and June, it feels as if we're cheated by the speed with which February comes and goes? Even more so when it's sandwiched between the mighty January and March, who clutch their extra days tightly lest an errant wind snatch them away.<br /> <br />Is February the runt of the litter? Last one out so the rest took all the meat? Does it have breathing problems and always get pushed to the back at feeding time?<br /> <br />Or, is it the black sheep? Getting into trouble and blaming its siblings? Small and sweet looking, so you'd never do that, would you Feb? Didn't think so.<br /> <br />We had our own February. Well, the month belongs to everyone, of course, but in here, in the depths of the asylum, February was alive, Johnny Five. And, most probably, holding out for a hero - much like all of us.<br /> <br />February. Small, red-headed, dimpled. Petite, you'd call her. She only came out of her shell during this particular four week month. Otherwise she barely spoke and remained huddled down within herself, as if her body had gone walkabout and her shadow was keeping her seat. I don't know why she was so different when January waved goodbye. Perhaps she was sympathetic to the month's plight. Maybe she identified with the baby of the year.<br /> <br />But, come the dawn of the second month, her body returned and February bore fruit.<br /> <br />She was a minx. It has to be said. A minx. Her double entendres had entendres and her normally dark eyes sparkled. She would have the other residents fighting over her affections, literally in some cases, as she flitted and flirted about the Recreation room. And she would smile at it all.<br /> <br />February was flanked, permanently when she had her brief bout of blossom, by two other residents. These were quiet and unassuming usually, but, again, changed when she awoke. The one to her left (they never mixed up their positions) took it upon himself to take a name that he thought would portray himself as a beast of a man. Someone you wouldn't want to mess with. Hulk was already taken, so he chose, being a Clash of the Titans fan, Gorgon.<br /> <br />His associate, right was always right, didn't quite get the gist of this. As such, he couldn't understand why we all laughed when he called himself 'Zola'.<br /> <br />They kept their little live-wire safe from the throng of admirers and held those who might have a grievance at arm’s length. Not that grievances were common in here. We were all as sad as each other, so there was little to cause animosity really. But, unfortunately, when you have nothing, even a little popularity is as valuable as a decent meal or warm fire. Or Rolex or winning lottery ticket, for that matter.<br /> <br />It all livened up a month lost after January’s New Year kick-off. As is the norm for this place we don’t call home, the fleeting burst of colour paled quickly. February faded, to be replaced by Anna, red-headed, dimpled, and small in every sense of the word.<br /> <br />Gorgon became Gerald. Gerald liked to play cards with an invisible deck, but never won a hand. Zola morphed into Brian. Brian liked to beat Gerald at cards.<br /> <br />Two days. It’s not much, is it? Why does it feel like a lifetime?Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-24767628342900000252013-02-05T07:42:00.001-08:002013-02-05T07:42:18.181-08:00What Happened to January...?What happened to January?<br /> <br />Is there a thief about, sneaking in the shadows, snatching months from under our noses as we live our mundane lives? I wonder if the petty stuff is seconds and minutes. Did he start on those and work his way up to days and weeks?<br /> <br />Do the Time thieves break the big-'time' when their confidence prompts them (with a whisper in the ear - Confidence can be sly like that) to move on to months? Do gangs of them plan heists of years, with only the decades reserved for the Mafioso of Time. Don Clock himself. No-one messes with him or his. Hulking in the background, a shadow across the years, taking the decades from the unwary, the wasters, those who squander the precious gift of Moment.<br /> <br />I imagine Don Clock, with the numbers etched across his face like ragged scars, in a bare room. There's a table in the centre. A bare bulb hangs low. Plans and drawings and notes are strewn across the wooden surface. The ultimate prize. Not a century. Not even a millennia. No.<br /> <br />Eternity itself.<br /> <br />But then, is time such a commodity? One that CAN be stolen? That it's precious, I don't deny. That it's squandered, well, I'm guilty of that myself. As I'm guilty of stealing it from so many. But death is my weapon of 'choice'. The Don and his minions and pretenders-to-his-throne don't murder. They let slip the dogs of wear. They slide it from beneath us whilst we have our heads stuck firmly in the television.<br /> <br />If, indeed, Time is such an object.<br /> <br />Is it, instead, a river that we float upon? Sometimes the flow becomes polluted and the worry lines on our foreheads multiply in sympathy. The is no Don. There are no thieves. There's rocks and rapids and the occasional waterfall in our paths that speed it up, causing us to hang on tightly lest we get overturned and drown, but it continues, ever, to the great Eternal Sea.<br /> <br />Perhaps it's neither. It's a being of itself. Monumental. Eternity and immensity blur to become one. Time. It sits and plays chess, like the gods of old, with us as the pieces. No, not chess. A cosmic Angry Birds, flicking each of us into a future we can't see and can barely control.<br /> <br />I don't know.<br /> <br />But January. What happened to January? Christmas was five minutes ago. Now, next Christmas is five minutes hence. Blink, and you'll miss it.<br /> <br />Best get the tree out again.<br /> <br />If they allowed trees in the asylum. <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-Rh5jMCP1LhU/UREoV82bK1I/AAAAAAAAH_Y/BcR9Qe_CPxo/s640/blogger-image--605294502.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-Rh5jMCP1LhU/UREoV82bK1I/AAAAAAAAH_Y/BcR9Qe_CPxo/s640/blogger-image--605294502.jpg" /></a></div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-28157631036201887572013-01-02T05:28:00.001-08:002013-01-02T05:28:39.309-08:00Resolutions...Resolutions.<br /> <br />Do people still make them? Do those that do, actually believe that they'll keep them? I wonder.<br /> <br />How many will cut down on the fatty foods or cut out the cigarettes? Who will pass on just one more chocolate from the Christmas surplus? Possibly more than I think. Probably less than I'd hope.<br /> <br />I thought about making some resolutions. I could cut down on my fatty foods, but I'm not sure of the calorie content of slop. I don't smoke, so cigarettes are safe around me. I could, I suppose, be more positive.<br /> <br />But then, it's difficult to be positive when you've voluntarily put yourself in a mental asylum, feigning paranoia, because people have a tendency to die around you.<br /> <br />A little rude, that. Dying around me. That's a joke, by the way. There's really nothing funny about death. Or Death. He and I have had many a conversation on mortality and more, and he has a distinct problem when it comes to cracking a joke. Maybe it's the way he tells 'em.<br /> <br />But, even though the cries of those that are deceased due to me haunt my slumber and my days, I could, potentially, be more positive.<br /> <br />My friends, here, look to me for support. Whether I like it or not, I can calm and guide with barely a word. Perhaps it's because I'm the only sane one in here. Perhaps it's because of my accepting, tolerant nature? There are mightier powers than mine to judge. Whatever it might be, my friends call me The Reverend and ask me for a soothing touch - though we are all 'touched' in one way or another.<br /> <br />How am I able to be positive with them but not with myself? Why can I appease, please and put at ease those that suffer, but not when I feel pain too?<br /> <br />Perhaps because I am the cause of my own pain. I'm the Brutus to my own Caesar. The knife in my own back. The bullet in my own gun.<br /> <br />Et tu, Sinius.<br /> <br />Polly didn't choose to have her father become enraged when she discovered her pregnancy. Kenny didn't deliberately set out that morning intending to have a car accident. Penelope may have had too much to drink, but she didn't want to crash and lose her son.<br /> <br />Well, I don't want people to die either, but it happens. It happens because I am Sin. Spit in your eye, wish I could... fly.<br /> <br />I do wish I could fly. Sometimes I imagine I can. Soaring over the sea, arms outstretched, body at an angle so my fingertips skimmed the waters. Just like the seagull in the video I once saw at the top of the Blackpool Tower.<br /> <br />Then I'm suddenly home to roost back here. Fed scraps and slop. Cooped up.<br /> <br />I may as well be a smoker or chocoholic. If this is me being 'positive', I'm positively rubbish at it.<br /> <br />I resolve to be resolutely realistic.<br /> <br />I'll continue to just be me. Haunted but helpful. Sinful but sensitive. Perhaps it'll make me a better person.<br /> <br />I couldn't be worse.<br /> <br />Happy New Year. <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-rgrXrMGWvt0/UOQ2AwuE1TI/AAAAAAAAH-4/UImgvEALOMw/s640/blogger-image--1736530921.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-rgrXrMGWvt0/UOQ2AwuE1TI/AAAAAAAAH-4/UImgvEALOMw/s640/blogger-image--1736530921.jpg" /></a></div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-67356150878889664302012-12-17T06:35:00.001-08:002012-12-17T06:35:39.338-08:00Season's Greetings...Apparently it's Christmas next week.<br /> <br />I say apparently as the days blur into weeks blur into months, much like the sky as it descends over to the horizon. There's no actual delineated line where one colours decides to let the next have control of the sky so it can rest and wait until evening when they all turn their lights down for the day. Yes, night comes and day breaks, but even then they tend to be flipsides of the same coin. A miasma of loneliness, lethargy and lunacy.<br /> <br />It could have been August, except there wasn't, normally, snow on the ground. I may have been that the Day After Tomorrow had woken before its alarm, so decided to get an early start, but I doubted it. With the lack of decent heating in the recreation room, we could see our breath. It was cold.<br /> <br />Viola, she of the maximum Medium, convinced she was in contact with 'The Other Side,' believed her breath was her soul escaping. She spent the day chasing after it, attempting to push it back in her mouth, screaming every time she saw it spew forth. At first, this was a little funny. Then it was irritating. But, when Viola decided to use half of Mucous Mickey's toilet roll to block her throat and fell in a convulsing heap, it suddenly became serious and Dr. Connors decided to put the heating on.<br /> <br />Just to shake the chill off, of course. We didn't feel as if we were sprawled out on a tropical beach somewhere wondering where we'd put that bottle of sun cream or where the waiter was with our cocktail.<br /> <br />No. It was still cold, just a little less so. Enough so that our breath became an invisible escapee, sneaking out of our bodies to disperse, freely, in the air. Well, if only a small part of us could be free, let it be the expulsions of our lungs. Better that than nothing.<br /> <br />So.<br /> <br />Christmas. Next week. Jeremy mentioned it, not realising, bless him, that it was just another day in the asylum. There was no tree. No tinsel wrapped the windows nor cards from friends or family adorned the sill. Presents would be in the form of a pill or injection. Perhaps a little electro-shock to spark up your day.<br /> <br />I have the cries of my Dead to keep me company. To reflect on family and loss. The season of goodwill, except I was good enough to take their will and trample it. Choke it. Destroy it. They remind me, daily, of that. And, to be honest, I am thankful. I should feel their sorrow. I should be suffocated with their screams.<br /> <br />'Tis the season to be jolly, fa-la-la-la-la la-la-blah-blah.<br /> <br />Be well, be happy, be warm. Cherish what you have and worry not for what you don’t. Fears can freeze your heart like the ice that covers the outside of the windows - a slippery coating that obscures the view of the vista beyond. Hopes can be like Viola's breath - a ghostly mist that slips through the fingers until it vanishes no matter how much you try to hold on.<br /> <br />How many lunatics does it take to build a snowman? None, because they already believe they're one.<br /> <br />Ho.<br /> <br />Ho.<br /> <br />Ho...<br /> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-kgPiv-Ukdt4/UM8tuJ7ee1I/AAAAAAAAHvA/nKoFSzJ-fkI/s640/blogger-image-1474042462.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-kgPiv-Ukdt4/UM8tuJ7ee1I/AAAAAAAAHvA/nKoFSzJ-fkI/s640/blogger-image-1474042462.jpg" /></a></div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-1349391525431242612012-11-19T03:55:00.001-08:002012-11-19T03:55:31.964-08:00A Girl for All Seasons...It's cold today. Frosty the Snowman came in the night, with his buddy Jack Frost, and had a pillow fight in the recreation room, spraying a dusting of white over everything.<br /> <br />Though white on the existing glaring white of the walls, floor and ceiling was a little redundant.<br /> <br />Their pillows, of course, were from that ice hotel up in Norway, or wherever it is. So they'd be ice pillows.<br /> <br />Yes, I know the pillows there are NOT made of frozen water, but for the purposes of this entry, let's just say they are. Frosty and Jack would have no real need for real, fluffy, feather-stuffed pillows, now would they?<br /> <br />Their frozen touch could be seen across almost every surface. The windows were almost opaque with a crystallised coating that seemed to resist any attempt to write your name or a random obscenity in. Hands were prone to stick to the metal arms of the chairs if you held on to it for too long, ignoring the burning cold sensation. Areas of the floor were alternatively slippery when wet or mini skating rinks and various residents tried out their non-existent skills with spins and leaps that left them in heaps against the walls.<br /> <br />Occasionally, there'd be the sound of a snap as the whirling wonder landed awkwardly and broke an ankle or wrist. The infirmary would be full by the end of the day.<br /> <br />Sitting in one corner, beneath the wall-mounted television set, was Connie.<br /> <br />Connie was a dear old dear who was just slightly nuttier than a nut. A peanut. Salty but you still couldn't get enough of her. She was a delightful woman who had not a single spiteful, hurtful or even slightly sinister thought in her head.<br /> <br />If, in fact, she had thoughts in her head.<br /> <br />Connie's particular delusion was obvious. It was a particularly peculiar parody of SAD. Seasonal Affected Disorder. Whereas most people became down in the dumps during the winter months, with a lack of both energy and enthusiasm dragging them into despair, Connie actually FELT the seasons. She BECAME them.<br /> <br />In spring, she was a budding flower. She would stand in a different spot each day, and she would, effectively, blossom. From a crunched ball, Connie would - excruciatingly slowly - unfurl. It would take hours for this to happen, and I couldn't understand how her joints wouldn't be aching or she'd walk with a permanent limp from the stiffness of holding odd positions for so long. But she didn't. In spring, there'd be a spring in her step, and that remained regardless of the season.<br /> <br />In summer, she decided beach play was the flavour to savour. An imaginary ball or frisbee would be thrown. Often, other residents would join in her play and once or twice a good dozen would be leaping or diving to catch thrown objects that weren't there.<br /> <br />I, myself, had won a tournament on a few weeks ago.<br /> <br />You do what you must to remain sane...<br /> <br />Today, it appeared, Connie had decided that, as Frosty and Jack had done their own brand of redecoration, it was winter. As such, it was also Christmas.<br /> <br />So she stood in the corner of the room, beneath the television's enduring onslaught of MTV. He arms were straight, at an angle down but away from her body. Her face was fixed. A smile. She had fashioned small stars and snowflakes from the toilet paper that Mucous Mickey always had with him and she'd hung them from various parts of her body.<br /> <br />A tissue angel was on her head, flopping forward, attempting to cover her face.<br /> <br />She was a Christmas tree.<br /> <br />How can you not smile? Not in a 'huh? Freak!' way, though. In a 'how wonderful' way. We're all, apparently, crazy in here, so no-one really cares what your daily doolally is. Rather than mumble in a chair all day or sit staring out of the window, however, Connie entertained, whether intentionally or not.<br /> <br />She was a Christmas tree. And I think that is nice.<br /> <br />It's cold today, but I can't help feeling warm.<br /> Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-34330333675110197152012-10-25T03:38:00.001-07:002012-10-25T03:38:50.345-07:00Happy HalloweenGhoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night.<br /> <br />And that's just the staff.<br /> <br />Halloween, or the preparation of, in the asylum is a wonderful thing. Last year, we had Abbie and Kristy joining in the festivities, one by losing half her tongue and the other by having a broken collarbone inflicted her by heavy-handed orderlies.<br /> <br />That was thanks to a glow-in-the-dark skeleton they'd decided to hang over the door so it would 'attack' anyone who came through.<br /> <br />In an asylum, that was likely to have a detrimental effect on the mood of the residents. And it did. Hence the hospitalisations. This year, they've decided to be a little more creative. Webbing, plastic spiders and fake cut out pumpkins adorn the rooms and corridors.<br /> <br />I think they genuinely want us to have a little fun. I actually believe they have, in this once instance, our interests in mind. I'd say 'to heart' but they'd have to have said organ for that to be true.<br /> <br />Saying that, they'd have to have a mind to have our interests resident in there, and I'm not so sure that's the truth either.<br /> <br />Anywho-be-do.<br /> <br />Halloween. It's a wonderful thing.<br /> <br />Half the world gets dressed up as creatures of the night. Horror has come a long wait, don't you think? Mummies and ghosts and monsters used to scare and terrorise us. Now they're the stuff of panto and party.<br /> <br />That's because the real monsters don't have arms hanging off or fangs. They don't burn in sunlight and they don't grow teeth, hair and claws during the full moon.<br /> <br />The real monsters smile at you. They stand behind you in the queue for the checkout waiting to pay for the groceries in their trolley.<br /> <br />They sit opposite you at breakfast and tell you they love you.<br /> <br />We don't have a day for them. There's no celebration for the real monsters.<br /> <br />But the night before All Saints Day, when the witches are meant to fly and the darkness is meant to rise, children put on costumes. They dress as Dracula or as the walking dead. They knock on the doors of complete strangers to ask for sweets or money.<br /> <br />That, I think, is scary.<br /> <br />Because one of those strangers could be one of the monsters that smile and say "Hi" and let you pay for your carton of milk first because they have a trolley full.<br /> <br />"Don't you look scary in your costume? I have some sweets for you. Come inside."<br /> <br />Lorraine. That's what happened to her. Dressed as a bat, complete with wings and fake fangs. Eight years old. Outfit made out of cardboard and black bin liners and lots of permanent marker. With a little bit of mummy's make up thrown in.<br /> <br />'Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to...'<br /> <br />Well you know how it goes.<br /> <br />Three weeks later, almost the end of November, they found her. She'd missed Bonfire Night, but her reappearance caused lots of fireworks in itself. They caught him. He said he'd been looking after her. He seemed to believe it too.<br /> <br />Aliens is one of my favourite films. Little Newt tells Ripley that her mommy says there are no monsters, not real ones.<br /> <br />But there are, aren't there?<br /> Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-37917515442807018912012-10-19T07:29:00.001-07:002012-10-19T07:29:03.209-07:00Feel...Forgive me, reader, for I am Sin. It's been an age and a half since my last entry and, for that, I feel I must apologise.<br /> <br />Time flies when you're feeling numb. In here, even that still means you are actually FEELING, even if it's only an absence of sensation.<br /> <br />I don't know where the time has gone. Has it been days? Weeks? A couple of minutes? I don't know. It 'feels' as if it has been some time.<br /> <br />The air is different. It's been inhaled and exhaled and tastes as though it's been partly digested. The sunlight can barely be bothered to reach in through the bars on the windows to tease us with the hint of warmth. Even the birds outside seem to be unable to raise enough effort to take flight.<br /> <br />I want to tell them that I'd fly, if I could. I'd leap from the ground and soar way up high. Even Icarus would have felt exhilarated at some point whilst looking down on the world. Granted, when his wings melted, the world would have been looking up thinking 'That showed you!' Still, he heart must have been fit to burst as he took to the air.<br /> <br />I'd tell them that I, too, would wish to soar. Even if my own fate mirrored that of poor Icarus, I'd take the risk. If I were destined to hit the ground face first, then fair enough. At least I'd have tasted freedom.<br /> <br />They're free, those birds. Free and they don't know it. Free and they stand, pecking, ambling, lethargic.<br /> <br />It's a different day, of that I'm sure.<br /> <br />And in the days or hours between the last I remember and this, something has happened. Something bad.<br /> <br />A 'me' something. A flip and catch something. Even without my coin, I can tell.<br /> <br />A car taking four young men to their first term at University has skidded off a road, somewhere near Edinburgh. It missed the tree. It didn't miss the fence or the dip that made it flip and roll, much like a coin, and it didn't miss the edge of the cliff that caused it to fall into the sea. Not that the cliff or the fall or the impact of the waves would have made a difference. Three of them were already dead.<br /> <br />The fourth took a further three minutes as the water came in. His heart gave a little dance in his chest and stopped beating before the fluid could fill his lungs. Before it could even reach his mouth or nose.<br /> <br />I can hear their cries. They screamed as the car spun out of control. One soiled himself. He didn't notice.<br /> <br />I can hear them. That's how I know something has happened. That's how I know that I flipped and the sea caught.<br /> <br />But I don't remember it happening. No pull. No twist in my gut. No pressure build up inside my skull. Nothing.<br /> <br />Except a few missing days.<br /> <br />Even feeling numb implies a sense of 'feeling.' As much as I wish I could join those birds and show them what they have, right now I wish...<br /> <br />I wish...<br /> <br />I wish that I wasn't.<br /> <br />But wishes are for those that have enough stacked up behind them to deserve a wish, whether a star is involved or a genie or simply a sigh. I'm not one of those. Even if I had anything in the bank prior to my finding my coin, I'm well overdrawn now. I wouldn't be surprised if I received a statement demanding charges.<br /> <br />As such, I accept. It is what it is. Such is life... and death.<br /> <br />I can hear them. The boys.<br /> <br />It was a Mazda. A white one. One of the boys was called William. Or rather 'Will.' He had a girlfriend. And a son.<br /> <br />Sweet little boy.Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-568982545272298322012-09-29T02:30:00.001-07:002012-09-29T02:30:15.742-07:00Bump Day...<div><p>Just what was it about Wednesdays anyway? And, shut away and doped to the eyeballs as we all were, how on Earth did we even know what day of the week it was?</p><p>I wonder if it's a collective consciousness. Ants have that, don't they? When one is threatened they all are? When one sneezes, they all say Gesundheit? How they know how to speak German is beyond me.</p><p>But a collective consciousness. A 'hive mind'. We're - or rather THEY'RE -almost there anyway. When one panics or throws a wobbler, there's a domino effect that has them all toppling over in one form or another. If one starts screaming uncontrollably for no other reason that the sun hit them in the eye through the window or the person next to them farted, the noise levels in the recreation room suddenly increase to levels only surpassed by standing next to an erupting volcano or under the Niagara Falls.</p><p>With the shiny walls, ceilings and floors glaring enough to make the air itself sometimes appear to be white, the room has the acoustic resonance of the Albert Hall. You'd never find the Proms being performed here, but there are certainly enough who feel the need to make their own music. Not that moaning and crying is actually anything close to being melodic, but the tune is often picked up and carried by the rest of the residents.</p><p>I prefer a little Snow Patrol or Eurythmics, myself.</p><p>Anywho.</p><p>Wednesdays. Bump day. The hike from Monday morning becomes the slippery slope to the weekend. In the outside world at least. Out there, where the sun shines and the grass grows and you can happily turn MTV over to Coronation Street or X-Factor - should you wish to -without fear of someone trying to rip your face off or, in the case of the orderlies, taser you.</p><p>In here, where the sun apparently shines and the grass probably grows and MTV is the only channel that the television has learned how to play, the weekend doesn't exist. Nor does the week. Or the month, year, hour or minute. Seconds and days are interchangeable. An hour and a heartbeat set to sea in a beautiful puke-green boat. A week and a day walk hand in hand along Tedious Terrace, pausing to look in the window of the old pawn shop where patients can swap their souls for an unhealthy dose of needles and neglect before continuing on the way to lunch at the Comatose Cafe.</p><p>Not a great menu there. They don't even do a decent bacon butty. And the coffee doesn't just taste like gnat's piss...</p><p>But Wednesdays. Once upon each Wednesday when the sun is high, whether or not it hits someone in the eye, one or another resident steps up to the mark and makes the Battle of Brian look like a walk in the park.</p><p>The Battle of Brian was a skirmish in the frozen foods aisle at Tesco one Saturday afternoon. There was only one tub of Cookie Dough Ben &amp; Jerry's left and two men put their hands on it at the same time, with neither being willing to give it up. Both, by pure coincidence, were called Brian, though they didn't know it until the police informed them. It got very nasty. A bag of frozen peas can do a lot of damage, more, in fact, than an 8 serving cheesecake. The frozen chicken, however, is the weapon of choice, it has to be said.</p><p>That's going to leave a scar...</p><p>Oh yes, Wednesdays. Around ten-thirty in the morning, someone picks up a carelessly discarded wobbler and throws it. Or, to put it another way, they kick off. Randomly and for nothing evident to the pseudo-rational mind. I might have said at some point that I'm the only sane one in here. Granted there's Jeremy, so perhaps not the only one, but I assume you get my point. The door to chaos is unlocked and left ajar, and, like the cupboard under the stairs where all the junk goes, it all spills out.</p><p>Like clockwork, when the clock has been wound so tight it's almost ready to snap and poke you in the eye. Then it does. But not quite like the sun.</p><p>But, how do they know it's a Wednesday? Ask me another.</p><p>How do I know? That's when I have my weekly - or weakly - consultation with Dr. Connors. Although it seems to be getting more frequent for some reason. He wants to see me more and more.</p><p>And every day can't be Wednesday, can it?</p></div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-10980327403364085712012-09-15T02:39:00.001-07:002012-09-15T02:39:08.559-07:00I Wonder...<div><p>When I close my eyes and want to go to sleep, I think of death, instead of sheep.</p><p>When the world closes its eyes, and can no longer see, what does it think of? Is it sheep? Is it me? When the sun sets and day becomes night and the demons come out and sanity takes flight, does the world's slumber become a nightmare causing a rumbling, grumbling quake of the earth?</p><p>Ask me another because I just don't know. I dream of death.</p><p>So. Last night I had a dream.</p><p>I dreamt of Joy and joy and smiles and laughter. Things that I remembered, but then... after... Her face became molten. It seeped and it cracked and it melted and dripped down onto her lap. Her eyes still had their sparkle, she couldn't lose that, even though one was sitting with the drips in her lap. But her voice was a bubble, the velvet was gone. It sounded like gargling glue had gone wrong.</p><p>I awoke with a start - or was it a stop? Either way, I sat upright. I was sweating and hot. My mind was spinning away with the wind and more than the others, I thought Sin had sinned.</p><p>But it had nothing to do with me, I am sure. Joy simply couldn't deal any more. I couldn't blame her really, I had been there too - all the deaths and the screams and the horrors down to me, and the ghosts that haunt in the dark I can't see - so why did I dream of her face becoming goo?</p><p>For a while I just laid there, staring up in the dark. My mind drifted like a leaf on a breeze whirlpooling in the park.</p><p>Was I was telling myself that I should do it as well? Take my own life and leap down into hell. Maybe I knew that by just being alive, it all carried on, the beast continuing to thrive. But I couldn't, I wouldn't, I didn't have the strength to draw the final curtain and bring it all to an end.</p><p>But perhaps, deep down, I knew that I must, lest the world, due to me, crumbled to dust.</p><p>That knowledge I bury under a mountain of guilt which I pull over my head like a thick winter quilt. I'm doing what's best and what's right and what's... easy. And if they give me the drugs, it's almost lemon squeezy. And I'll continue to ignore that I know Joy is right. That to kill herself was to win the fight. If I don't, then I know that I'll have to stand up and be a man. I'll have to commit suicide. But I don't know if I can.</p><p>When the world closes its eyes, and can no longer see, I wonder, does it dream of me?</p></div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-47783299773428267322012-09-05T07:18:00.002-07:002012-09-05T09:32:46.539-07:00The Power....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t0fjYxQGAhM/UEd-cFDotXI/AAAAAAAAE9Y/_7oLOy79sM4/s1600/static-electricity-tw1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t0fjYxQGAhM/UEd-cFDotXI/AAAAAAAAE9Y/_7oLOy79sM4/s320/static-electricity-tw1.png" /></a></div><br /><div><p>We had a power cut today.</p><p>With a loud click, coming from nowhere in particular but seemingly everywhere in reality, the lights went off.</p><p>And the television set went off.</p><p>And the blinking light on the CCTV cameras.</p><p>Oh, and the security locking on the doors.</p><p>Nobody noticed that one straight away. In fact, the only thing that bothered anyone, apart from the orderlies, was the television. When you only have the company of the insane or the indifferent, a TV is your lifeline to the outside world.</p><p>Granted ours was stuck on MTV, producing a raucous mix of beat and breasts - sometimes a bit much for a few of the residents - but at least it had a semblance of life. At least you could see people having fun.</p><p>Not that it was always a good thing. When you're wallowing in misery, dipping your toes in the pool of pissed-off-ishness, someone ELSE having fun kind of put the boot in to kick you over the edge so you almost drowned in the sea of shitty-attitude.</p><p>Today, though, everyone had seemed to put on an up. The mood was light. The orderlies had minimal reason to interfere with the residents and the residents themselves gave the orderlies little to worry about. It was sunny outside and the warmth was filling everyone with an unusually buoyant radiance.</p><p>Then click.</p><p>Then moans. Cries. Screams, in places.</p><p>Then chaos.</p><p>NEXT is a popular clothes store. When they have a sale, people queue up outside from around 5am. I imagine, when they open their doors, the scene would be much like it was here. People would be milling around, running, pushing. Clothes would be torn or dropped to the floor. The odd unfortunate would be trampled underfoot.</p><p>A sudden lack of television had the same effect, pretty much, the only difference being that there wasn't 70% off ladies skirts.</p><p>I wondered if NEXT sold asylum scrubs... Maybe there was a gap in the market...</p><p>The orderlies must have been dozing, lulled into a false sense of sanity by the morning's mood. It took them a few precious seconds to react and jump in, attempting to instil some calm with their usual brand of brute force. Head locks and half-nelsons did next to nothing to bring the throng to heel.</p><p>In the ensuing pandemonium, someone fell or was pushed against the door.</p><p>Now Dr. Connors is all about high-tech. State of the art. Top of the range cameras. Top of the range locks. Why use a key when a four digit number will suffice? You can steal a key, but not something that's committed (no pun intended) to memory. Less chance of the lunatics taking over the asylum.</p><p>Yes... Good luck with that.</p><p>When Ian, who never listened to the voices in his head no matter how much they screamed at him, fell backwards into the corridor, there was a sudden hush (possibly even from within his head). It was as if someone had taken a 3D photograph of the room and everybody was frozen in place. Then the milling about ceased and a flood of patients very impatiently poured out of the recreation room and into the hallway.</p><p>About three minutes later, the power came back on.</p><p>About three hours later, order was, once more, restored. Well, apart from dear old Edna Cuthbertson, who'd accidentally found the furnace room and decided to burn her clothes. Unfortunately she'd used her hands to put her scrubs into the incinerator. She wouldn't be putting her hands anywhere after that.</p><p>Only two residents had managed to find the door to outside, through the nursery. They were caught picking flowers, just this side of the stump. Eight were back in their cells, curled up on their beds quietly. A further fourteen were found in the laundry room, making tents out of towels and singing around a small fire -the source of which hasn't been discovered. Eddie, all smiles and sunshine - despite the dent in the back of his head from playing catch with a bowling ball - had a broken femur from the rugby tackle used to catch him.</p><p>And me. They spent an awful lot of time searching for me. I hadn't actually moved. Whilst everyone else was enjoying the pseudo-freedom and running riot, I didn't move. I stayed in my seat and stared at the blank TV.</p><p>The sudden hush from Ian opening the door had been preceded by another one. In my own head. When the electricity went off, the screams - even the dull echo of the screams - stopped also.</p><p>I, for the first time in so long, was sitting in silence. Internally and externally. And I relished it.</p><p>I wasn't under any illusion that it was the electricity causing this beast to come alive inside of me. That was my own creation. I certainly wasn't Frankenstein's prototype or anything of the sort.</p><p>But, when that click was heard...</p><p>I wonder if it came from me. Whatever curse I battle with has an off switch, and some sort of electromagnetic pulse was emitted that killed the TV and everything else. I suppose it was better than leaving MTV and killing the patients.</p><p>No. It wasn't me - this time.</p><p>We had a power cut today. All of us. Including me.</p></div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-41861403192857612872012-07-26T07:31:00.003-07:002012-07-28T01:38:10.408-07:00The Silver Screen...<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--bqGc6Epqcg/UBFpBLPOsVI/AAAAAAAADOI/iaQlmEyfakA/s1600/cinema1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="308" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--bqGc6Epqcg/UBFpBLPOsVI/AAAAAAAADOI/iaQlmEyfakA/s320/cinema1.png" /></a></div><br /><p>The silver screen.</p><p>Why is it called that? Well, because the screens used to be silver - duh! Back in the days of black and white film, when a flickering feature was the highlight of the week, screens were silver for the better reflections and contrast. And now 3D movies are growing, they might make a comeback. Same deal.</p><p>And anywho, the White Screen just doesn't have the same glamorous ring to it as the Silver Screen, now does it?</p><p>If a movie were to made of your life, would you go see it? Would there be enough in your day of waking, working, soaps and snoring to enthral the viewer? Would a red carpet be laid out, flashing photographers shouting out your name?</p><p>"Look here!" "Smile!"</p><p>And who would play you? Someone dashing or alluring? Brad Pitt? Matt Damon? Ryan Reynolds? Jennifer Aniston? Penelope Cruz? Or someone more... normal. An actor without the perfect skin and face and nose? Who would you choose?</p><p>Me. What do I think?</p><p>Is my life worthy of a movie? I doubt it. Even in the days of Avatar and Harry Potter, or where werewolf and vampire vie for the love of a girl, the story of a man who can kill people with his mind. Not entirely believable, is it?</p><p>Saying that, it's not even my mind. I don't actually know what it is. It's something inside of me. Evil? A demon? Ask me another.</p><p>I really don't know. But that's why I'm here. That's why I eat the slop and spend my days in a single recreation room with only MTV and puddles of Mickey's mucous to keep me company.</p><p>Who'd want to see a film about that?</p><p>But. Who would play me?</p><p>Now I'm not vain enough to believe the like of Pitt or Damon would want to step into my shoes. Maybe Mark Wahlberg. He's not the clean cut action star. He's played the comedic and the calamitous. Or Kevin Spacey. Sure I have a little more hair. No. He draws attention to himself. Even without intending it (though he is an actor and that's what he's there for), you're drawn to him. I'm an everyman - and I believe that is glorifying myself.</p><p>Ordinary Joe. That's me. A little more ordinary than most. Or, at least, that's what I'd like. But the deaths. The screams. Maybe that's a little more than ordinary. it doesn't change me, though. It simply drags me out of my shoes and throws me about in the grumbling storm clouds above. And the deaths rain down.</p><p>A movie about me, on a screen silver or white.</p><p>Hardly Oscar material.</p><b>(Support Independent Cinema: <a href="http://fivewayfilms.com/">Fiveway Films</a> are creating a 100% public funded movie NOW)</b><br /><p></div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-8373575772769685862012-07-12T02:15:00.002-07:002012-07-12T04:26:34.883-07:00Songs in the Key of Life...<div><img src='http://lh4.ggpht.com/-PipnlnA5UeI/T_6WWJWhGeI/AAAAAAAACuc/ZMZ_og8zhlE/Glass.png' /><br /><p>Songs in the key of life.</p><p>That's what she sang. Forget upper 'C' or an octave lower than the bottom of your boots. She sang songs in the key Life, with a capital Luh.</p><p>Not that she sang, as such. She didn't warble one hit wonders from the 80s or rap like Eminem in a skirt - or rather scrubs. I don't think I heard her even so much as hum a happy tune, but she could sing, still.</p><p>"What you talking about, Willis?" I hear you say.</p><p>Well, of course I don't hear you say that at all. Partly because, I would assume, many of you don't even know who Willis is and partly because you're there, wherever 'there' might be, and I'm here, snuggled up cosier than a bug in a rug in front of a roaring fire. With the central heating on. And a thermal vest - though I doubt they make thermals that small or with that many leg/arm holes.</p><p>You never know, though. You can get anything on Ebay these days.</p><p>Anywho.</p><p>Songs. Life. The key of. Of what do I speak.</p><p>Have you ever heard someone pluck at a harp string, perfectly tuned and perfectly plucked? No? How about crystal shattering on a stone floor. Probably on a summer's day when the air is fresh and silent. All you hear is the noise of the smash, but it's almost a flawless sound. As sharp and as clear as the crystal itself.</p><p>No? Well, imagine it then. Think of what those sounds would be like. They'd pierce your eardrum with an absolute clarity and ring through your brain.</p><p>Zoe was like that. They say someone can be a breath of fresh air. She was. In the enclosed space of the recreation room - and, to be honest, the rest of the asylum as 'Outside' was almost forbidden territory - the air always felt recycled. It felt used and second hand. Like it had been picked up for 50p at a car boot sale early one Sunday morning.</p><p>But when she swept by (she did sweep -it was never simply a walk), the wake of her passing was like the harp string being plucked, possibly with a crystal shard as the plectrum.</p><p>You found yourself breathing in, a breath so deep it filled your lungs and kept on going, storing reserves of freshness from your treacle-toes up. She sang with her body and with her spirit. Always bright. Always a smile -not necessarily dazzling, but there nonetheless. Her eyes held a twinkle in them that, I don't doubt, was there voluntarily rather than being held captive, imprisoned by the iris behind the bars of the lens.</p><p>Why would such a girl be in here?</p><p>The death of a baby. The dark place it must plunge you into. The bright cell of denial she locked herself away in.</p><p>What do you do with that pain? How can you bind it so tightly you are able ignore its presence? Does that make you a master of deception - the deceived being yourself? Does it show the Hulk-like inner strength, but without the green, pants tearing aspect? Or does it make you crazy?</p><p>Zoe sings a song of Life inspired by the absence of the same. A song of Life composed after a visit from Death. I didn't realise the Reaper was such an artist.</p><p>Maybe I should sing along.</p></div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-32913618953604568102012-06-28T04:27:00.002-07:002012-06-28T05:49:11.260-07:00Sin... Ants in your Pants...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-prsecIrcyyU/T-xSqxGl4eI/AAAAAAAACRg/uqqQ4xpj7H8/s1600/fireant1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="158" width="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-prsecIrcyyU/T-xSqxGl4eI/AAAAAAAACRg/uqqQ4xpj7H8/s320/fireant1.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div><p>Ants in your pants, apparently, make your belly button dance.</p><p>I'm sure that, if ants were indeed crawling around in my pants, it wouldn't just be my belly button dancing. I'd be bouncing around like a bungee jumping Pinocchio if the little blighters were invading my interiors. They'd be like moving grains of sand - getting into all my nooks and crannies no matter how I tried to brush them off.</p><p>I don't mind flies, spiders, moths or man-eating mosquitoes, but ants get to me.</p><p>Maybe it's because I expect them to be able to club together and carry me off to their nest. I'd be their Gulliver and they'd be victorious in their conquest of me. If an ant can carry multiple times its own body weight, I don't suppose a whole nest's worth would have a problem carting me off. The food in this place isn't exactly nourishing. Or appetising. Or, really, anything resembling actual food. Any ants would be better off with the likes of me rather than anything the kitchen might produce.</p><p>It's almost as if the food goes through a filter and all of the goodness is sucked out, leaving us with the pallid, paltry remnants. I suppose that filter would be like the digestive system - all the vitamins and nutrients are removed for the good of the body and all the crap is expelled. The slop they serve us essentially is another four letter word that begins with 'S.' Rather than it saying 'Lo' to a 'P', though, it says 'Hi' to a 'T.'</p><p>It appears I'm not the only one who's not keen on them. It appears that, instead of just not being keen, some are positively fearful. Whether this is an underling, pre-existing fear, a result of the individual's dementia or a side-effect of the drugs, I'm not entirely sure.</p><p>But...</p><p>This morning, when we were led from breakfast (slop on toast - at least, I'm assuming the cardboard wedges were meant to be toast and they weren't just handing out free door stops) to the recreation room, one corner was moving.</p><p>Yes, moving.</p><p>In the bottom corner, beneath the TV and to the left of the window, a shadow shifted and shuddered. I did the same. My friend Bender Benny looked, shrugged and parked himself in his favourite chair for his after-slop snooze. A couple threw up - a bit excessive, methinks - and then someone tipped the domino.</p><p>Brenda, sweet and low with a saccharin aftertaste, screamed. Carol, a woman whose fastest speed was a shamble and was only so far into the room because she'd been swept up by the throng of residents and orderlies, took the proffered baton of hysteria and ran with it.</p><p>Like a forest wildfire, all crackles and sparks and chaos, the madness - appropriate for an asylum, you may think - spread. Butter on toast (cardboard or otherwise) it smothered everyone until the orderlies had no option (they'd tell you) other than to resort to their mini version of cattle prods.</p><p>A few good zaps later and a few good cans of ant spray and order was finally restored. It didn't take much. A mop for the vomit. A hoover for the husks of the once-active ants. A nudge to wake Benny because his favourite programme was on in a minute. Grumbles from the orderlies about not being paid enough for this aggravation - though they didn't really need to smile as they jabbed their prods.</p><p>Hours later I still scratched myself and twitched occasionally as I was sure I felt an ant crawling on my arm or neck or under my scrubs. But I didn't. It was, most probably, their ghosts.</p><p>Ants in your pants make your belly button boogie.</p><p>Ants in an asylum make the residents riot.</p></div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8143372892884045694.post-70452847376230752262012-06-13T07:20:00.002-07:002012-06-13T23:43:55.616-07:00Sin... Snapping Synapses...<div><p>Why is the number pad on a computer different to the one on a telephone? And why, when I'm calling someone, do I not forget this and end up calling Outer Mongolia instead?</p><p>It feels perfectly normal to be entering figures on a keyboard and then upside-down myself to call the local Indian takeaway for a nice Balti or Chicken Tikka. Sweet chilli naans please, and yes, I would like poppadoms. Or poppadums if you have them instead.</p><p>Why is that? The human brain is weird in some of the automatic connections it makes. I remember seeing an email in which the internal letters of the words were muxed ip and you were still meant to be able to read it as your brain automatically figures it out as long as the first and last are in place.</p><p>If you see waht I maen.</p><p>But that's on a small scale. Even upsidising your mind to adapt to which number order you're using, though it probably takes millions of snapping synapses to sync, is small fry - and not in the way of crispy bacon and eggs.</p><p>Edgar Alan Peterson. Ed to me and a small number of others and Poo to most of the rest. His synapses snapped along at a crazy rate, jumping from subject to subject, leaping tall bananas in a single bound. The Jack of all Juxtapositions and Master of Madness.</p><p>Well, not quite. To say he was Master of Madness was to steal Connors' crown like a thief in the night, sneaking from shadow to doorway to... other hidey thing... until the crown was in your possession. Beware of those thorns though. Not only did Connors think himself as, in here at least, the Almighty, you could be sure there'd be plenty of pricks involved.</p><p>Most involved drugs or orderlies, syringe or (though, of course, it never REALLY happens) succubus.</p><p>Anywho. Ed. He spoke at a rate of knots the coastguard would have little chance of keeping up with. He'd be a fast disappearing dot in the eye of the river police I think I saw Bruce Willis playing in a film once. And everything he said, however disjointed and tangential, made some sort of sense.</p><p>He played a permanent, tumbling, game of word association that had your head spinning as you tried to keep up but, when you attempted to replay the conversation back in your mind later - in the slow motion of a spit flinging Van Damme movie fight -you could, kind of, see how the path managed to meander from its start to its ultimate end.</p><p>Somehow the fact that the sun was shining became a discussion on mountaintop dew levels, moving to the number of times he's hit his thumb whilst hammering a nail, then being swiftly overtaken on the outside lane by the fact that he preferred KFC to McDonalds except on Fridays because Friday is Fries-day. Then it was a race for the finishing line between why men's shoe sizes are different to women's and is a bubble stronger from the inside than it is from the outside?</p><p>And, during the whole conversation, he would take, perhaps, three breaths.</p><p>That was why he was in here. He was a telephone man in a keyboard world, but, somehow, he managed to fit. You couldn't quite figure out why, but you accepted it anyway.</p><p>I wonder if that explains me. I wonder if I'm upsidised. The buttons are being pressed in the wrong order. Something in my head is the wrong way round and that's why they all died.</p><p>That's why they all die.</p></div>Shaun Allanhttps://plus.google.com/109678542306940545169noreply@blogger.com0